


Near Loss, and Certain Gain

by wholockian_browncoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Discovery, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Smut, My First Fanfic, New Relationship, Post-Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholockian_browncoat/pseuds/wholockian_browncoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walking home from their most recent case, Sherlock and John come through a harrowing experience together, which causes their feelings to... ahem... make themselves known. Light smut ensues at the end, but leave it to Lestrade to prevent things from going too far.</p><p>Takes place sometime after His Last Vow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near Loss, and Certain Gain

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, ever, so please be kind. It may be rubbish, but it's mine, and I like it. I hope you do too. Comments are welcome, and constructive criticism and advice from other writers will be gladly received.
> 
> edit: If you've read it, please, please, please leave me a comment, just to let me know you did? Pretty please?

It was twilight over London, the deep reds and purples of sunset fading away to dusky shadow, and Sherlock and John were walking back to the flat at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was lost in his thoughts, pouring over everything that had happened in the last day and a half, certain that despite solving the case, he had missed something. John knew how he obsessed after each case, even after successfully closing it. Giddy and slightly unsteady from thirty-six hours straight of chasing suspects through alleyways, in and out of tube stations (and carriages), and no sleep, John bumped Sherlock's hip with his own and said, "Cluing for looks in your 'mind palace', Sherlock?" He snickered.

No response.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Earth to Sherlock! Come in, Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock asked, still deep in thought. "What is it, John?"

John sighed, and smiled tolerantly. "Never mind, Sherlock."

As they neared 221B, John caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. A figure darted out of the gloom toward Sherlock, and without thinking, John jumped in front of him with the reflexes of a soldier, and the instinct of a man protecting what he holds most dear. With a lightening-quick grab and twist of his wrist, he wrenched the knife out of the would-be mugger's hand, and head-butted the attacker in the face. A kick to the midriff sent the assailant to the ground, where his head hit the pavement with a solid _thwack_.

Sherlock, startled out of his contemplation, stood in shock and stared at the unconscious man at his feet. He couldn't believe that he had been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he hadn't even noticed the man lurking in the shadows. He realized that John had been forced to protect him because he wasn't paying attention. Sherlock Holmes, the omni-observant genius, had _zoned out._

 _My God, if John hadn't seen the knife..._ But no, he wouldn't let that thought form.

John was crouching next to the man, in healer mode now that the danger had been neutralized. He checked for a pulse, found one – weak, but steady, and growing stronger – lifted the eyelids and saw normal pupillary reaction to the light of the streetlamps. Satisfied the man would survive, he stood up.

And chuckled when he saw the expression of shock on Sherlock's face.

"Missed one, did you Sherlock? Too busy wandering through your 'mind palace' to see what was right in front of you?"  _And that's not the only thing you've missed that's been right in front of you,_ John thought.

“John, I – "

Sherlock was interrupted by a server at Speedy's, who had witnessed the entire four-second scuffle from the front window, and was now poking his head out the door. "Shall I ring the police, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply, so John said, "No, that's alright, it's sorted. He's not going anywhere for awhile, and I've got DI Lestrade on speed dial. Thanks."

He placed the call to Lestrade, got voice mail, left a short message, and headed up the steps to the door of 221B. Sherlock followed in a daze.

Since Sherlock didn't seem inclined to unlock the door, John reached into the pocket of Sherlock's long coat –  _God I love that coat,_ John thought to himself – and retrieved the key. They went inside, leaving the door unlocked for Lestrade. They climbed the steps to their flat – no, Sherlock's flat now, since John had moved out – and found a note from Mrs Hudson sello-taped to the door.

_Hello boys, just popped out for some milk and tea – we're running low, and goodness knows what you've done to what's in your refrigerator, Sherlock. Be back soon. Mrs H._

"Well, at least we don't have to explain the poor bastard on the pavement to Mrs Hudson. And a nice cuppa sounds good." John pulled the note off the door.

"She's gone to meet her dealer. Marijuana," Sherlock clarified, automatically deducing. "She picked up tea, milk, and biscuits yesterday."

"Just can't turn it off, can you Sherlock?" John shook his head, amused by his friend.  _Except for when it's me. How can you not notice when I look at you?_ he wondered, not for the first time – or the hundredth.

Sherlock didn't reply, still lost in thought, unable to completely quell the anxiety in the pit of his stomach. It had lodged itself there at the thought of John injured, or worse, and Sherlock had to keep glancing at John's face to reassure himself.

They walked inside, and John headed for "his" chair. Not so much his, though, since the wedding. At least Sherlock had moved it back to its original position. He sat down wearily, and the disuse of the chair was made evident by the cloud of dust that puffed up. He sneezed, and winced at the bright flash of pain in his right cheekbone.  _Must have caught a fist to the face as the bastard went down. Guess he was left-handed,_ he thought, amused at his small deduction.

At John's small hiss of pain, Sherlock came out of his daze, and was at John's side in two strides of his long legs. He knelt beside the chair, and reached out his left hand to gently brush his fingertips over the rapidly forming bruise on John's cheekbone. "You're hurt. He  _hurt_  you." He left his hand on John's cheek.

"Leave it, Sherlock, it's nothing. "Embarrassed, John didn't look at him.

"John, what you did..." Sherlock took a breath. "I could have lost you. He had a knife."

"I'm a soldier, Sherlock. It was reflex, and it's what I'm trained for. You didn't see him." John felt chilled at the thought of what might have been. "He came at you out of nowhere, and you didn't  _see_  him! What was I supposed to do?"

"You're not supposed to protect me, John." Sherlock's hand trembled on John's cheek. "I'm supposed to protect you."

John reached up, and covered Sherlock's hand with his own. He sighed. "Sherlock, we protect each other. That's what..." he paused, uncertain. "What 'friends' do, isn't it?" He raised his head, and met Sherlock's ice-blue gaze, the question in his eyes.  _Have you noticed after all, Sherlock?_

"Friends, John? Is that what we are?" Reassured by the physical contact, Sherlock felt the sharp edges of near-loss in his stomach soften, and begin to dissolve. And felt something new begin to stir. More confident now, he gently circled his thumb on John's cheek.

"Sherlock, please, you know I'm rubbish at this sort of thing." He dropped his gaze again, but his hand tightened on Sherlock's, and his breath trembled.

"What sort of thing, John?" Sherlock smiled, teasing now, his anxiety evaporating completely as John's reaction confirmed his deduction.

"This sort." John raised his eyes again _,_  leaned forward, and gently placed his lips on Sherlock's.

They both held still, locked in the moment, suddenly wanting,  _needing_. Then Sherlock gave a little sigh, and the tension left their bodies. Their mouths moved gently against each other, and John leaned into Sherlock's hand on his cheek. He clasped his left hand to Sherlock's right, intertwining their fingers.

Sherlock's mind was racing, observing as fast as his heart was beating. He took it all in, the warmth of John's cheek under his hand, the steady blue of John's eyes, the panting breaths, John's scent, the rough feel of John's stubble against his own smooth skin, the sensation of John's fingers twining with his own, the hard band of metal on John's finger...

The band of metal.  _On John's left ring finger._

Sherlock jerked backward, pulled his hands free of John as if burned. "John, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

John's eyes were wide with confusion. "What's wrong Sherlock? You didn't hurt me, it's just a bruise!"

"John... your ring...  _Mary_..."

It was John's turn to smile at the dismay on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, it's okay. We've talked. She knows, it's fine, it's all fine. She understands."

"She knows? You've talked? But...John... how... when..." Sherlock took a steadying breath. "How long have you known? How you... feel?"

John stared into Sherlock's eyes for along moment, and then dropped his gaze. "Since the beginning, Sherlock. Since the first day in the lab. When you strode out on those long legs, but then leaned back in the door and said  _The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street_. And you winked. You amazed me, Sherlock. Everything  _about_  you amazes me. And when I lost you..." He cast about for the right words.

"Mary picked up the pieces and put me back together. And she knew, from the first, how I felt about you, even if I never told her. And she loved me anyway. Or maybe because of it. And then in the restaurant, when you came back... Well. I think she fell for you a little, too. But not like that. She finally understood what I can see in you that no one else can. And she sees how you change me, what you make me into. And she doesn't want to give up that version of me. So she accepts it. Dammit Sherlock, she  _loves_  me, and I love her, and she accepts that I..." He took a deep breath.

"That I love  _you_ , too, Sherlock."  _There, he'd said it. He'd finally got it out._

Sherlock, in all his brilliance, was speechless.

John looked up at him, stood up, went to him. He took Sherlock's hand, and pressed it to his heart. "Do you feel that? When you... fell... it stopped beating. When Mary came, it started again, but with a jagged hole still left in it. And now, with you here in front of me, that empty space is filled again. "He paused. "Sherlock, will you have me? As I am, damaged, ordinary, and complicated?" He held his breath.

"John, I gave you my vow. It stands. Forever, for you, for Mary... for us. Yes, John, I will take you as you are, if you will have me as I am. Ridiculous, rude, dismissive – and lost. Or I was lost, but not now. Not with you. Loving you..." He gathered his courage once again. "Loving you, John, makes me a better man."

He took hold of John's other hand, and pressed it to his own heart. "This beats for you, John. In the literal sense, it beats for you. In the hospital, after Mary... well, you know. After. My heart stopped, and I was dying. The one thing that made me fight was the thought that you were in danger. You brought me back to life John, in so many ways. When I look at you, John, I see life. Life as I have never lived it. Life that I want to live with you."

John felt the trembling in Sherlock's hands, and knew his were doing the same. So much time wasted, on uncertainty, on denial, but now he could make up for all of it. He slipped one of his arms around Sherlock's waist, and pulled him gently closer. Sherlock placed both of his hands on John's hips. John slid his other hand to the back of Sherlock's head, fisting it in soft, dark curls. He tugged gently and Sherlock's face lowered to his own. As their lips met once again, they kept their eyes open. John watched Sherlock's impossibly light blue eyes widen as he tightened his arm around Sherlock's waist, pressing them together.

The golden-brown ring in Sherlock's irises flared to fire as he moaned. "John..." he breathed against John's lips.

"Hush, Sherlock. Just this once, don't think, don't speak. Just feel."

John ran his fingers up the nape of Sherlock's long neck, coaxing another small sound of pleasure from Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's hands tightened on John's hips as he pressed closer, deepening the kiss. Mouths parted, and hearts opened, allowing each other in completely. Tongues teased lips, and hot breath merged.

John roughly pulled the scarf from around Sherlock's neck, letting it fall to the floor. He struggled out of his jacket, tossing it aside, and then turned Sherlock around to strip off his long coat. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind, and nuzzled the side of Sherlock's neck for a moment, breathed into his ear.

Sherlock spun back around, and they came together again. John guided Sherlock backward until Sherlock's legs hit the low sitting room table. They veered around the side of the table to the sofa, mouths still locked. Sherlock sat down, breaking the kiss, and John stood over him, looking into his eyes. Sherlock took hold of John's hands and tugged, and John lowered himself down, kneeling on the sofa with one leg on either side of Sherlock. He paused for a moment, and then Sherlock leaned forward and took his mouth once again. John slid both his hands back into Sherlock's hair, and slowly, so slowly, settled his weight onto Sherlock's lap. This time they both moaned.

John clenched his fists in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock raised his hips in response, wanting,  _needing,_ to feel John tight against him.  _How could he have not known until this night how he needed John?_ John, with his quick smile and the laugh lines at the corner of his eyes, his adorably pert nose, his compassion, his intrinsic understanding of human nature, and his comic insistence that he was undoubtedly  _not gay._

 _John,_ thought Sherlock,  _you may not be gay, but you are_ something _. And we are_ definitely  _a couple._

John's hand released Sherlock's curls and began to fumble with the buckle of Sherlock's belt. It released, and John yanked it out of the belt loops and let it fly across the room. As he popped open the button and began to unzip Sherlock's fly, they heard Lestrade's voice echo up from the first floor – they had forgotten about the unlocked door. "Why is there an unconscious man on the pavement? What have you two gotten into now?!" came Lestrade's exasperated yell. As footsteps pounded up the stairs, John pulled back slightly, and glanced down at himself still straddling Sherlock.

He put one hand on Sherlock's knee, and with a grin, said, "I don't mind."

Sherlock grinned right back.

Lestrade came through the inexplicably always-open door to the flat, panting, and observed John sitting on top of Sherlock, one hand still fisted in Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock, John..." He trailed off. "What the blazes? Are you two  _brawling_? What is this?" He looked around, took in the discarded clothing strewn haphazardly about the room, the belt that had landed on the back of John's chair, and then looked back at the two men on the couch. "Oh. Not fighting, then." Colour began to rise in his cheeks.

Sherlock and John looked at each other again, and burst out laughing. "Well done, Gavin," said Sherlock, "Looks like you've solved this one all on your own, and not a single mention of a dwarf. Brilliant deduction! Didn't take you too long at –"

Sherlock broke off as John cleared his throat. "Greg," John said.

"What?" Sherlock looked confused.

"His name is Greg, Sherlock. Not Gavin, Greg." John cuffed him on the shoulder.

Lestrade rolled his eyes as he turned and walked out of the room. "Well, at least Mrs Hudson will be pleased!"

John and Sherlock's laughter followed him out of the room.

***

Alone again, John dropped his forehead to Sherlock's. "Well, Sherlock, where do we go from here?"

Sherlock extricated himself from from the tangle of arms and legs that was John Watson. He made his way to the door of the flat, closed it soundly, and locked it with a click.

"Bedroom. Now."

 

_fin_


End file.
